China Syndrome
by Whatdidyousay
Summary: Clint crashes through a window and a bunch of things tumble out. Rating for adult themes, language, violence, and other such things. For later chapters touching on darker themes, warnings will be posted at top.
1. Chapter 1

Note: Characters do not belong to me no matter how much I wish they did. Title comes from hypothetical loss of coolant accident in a nuclear reactor where the core melts to the other side of the earth, sure sign of good things to come. For all intents and purposes, this is movie-verse. Not beta'd, read at your own risk.

"How'd this happen, you idiot?"

"Fell through a glass window. Be nice would ya?"

"Should have gone to medical if you want nice. Too late now." Despite what she said, Natasha had no intention of making this any worse than it already had to be. Clint's back was a mess with what a probably hundreds of pieces of shattered glass embedded in the already scarred skin. Each piece was small, she couldn't see anything larger than the size of a pinky nail, but picking it all out with a pair of drugstore tweezers was going to hurt like a bitch.

They were in a bedroom on the 85th floor of Stark tower having excused themselves after seeing Loki dispatched bound and gagged to SHIELD custody. The others were also presumably off to clean themselves up after what has been by far not a good day, all of their bodies having seen far better days. She was admittedly exhausted herself and covered in her share of cuts and bruises, but it wasn't until she drew a circle with her hand on his back when it was all finally over that she realized he was fucked up much worse. He'd discretely pulled away her blood covered hand, wiped it on his uniform, and said, 'Stark, you gotta a place where we can clean up and crash? I'm ready to sleep until next week.' The others quickly nodded their silent agreement. The slight slurred tilt to his words told her his hearing must be shot as well.

Clint was laying face first on some garbage bags they'd spread over the sheets. They'd both stripped off their uniforms and she sat straddled over his back. Reaching forward, she cupped both hands over his ears and pulled out the two tiny pieces of plastic.

"It's fine. I doubt you can hear much right now anyway, not after all that crash and bang. And I know your head's about to explode any minute now." He simply blinked his assent, having never liked to speak when he couldn't hear himself, even in front of her. His head was twisted off to his side and it looked like he was looking intently at something at the foot of the bed, but she knew that he could still see her out of that scary peripheral vision of his, could still read her lips, so you kept on speaking.

"Phil's dead you know?"

"Yeah." Verbal response, not sure if that's good or bad.

"There are worse ways to go, went out like a badass. What we do. We're all overdue." The words just spilled out of her mouth like they always do with him.

"Yeah."

"I know you guys were close. I'm sorry Clint."

"Saved my life...was my first real friend...first to actually care. You know how that feels?" Despite the silence that permeated the room. She had to strain to catch his whispered words.

"Yeah. When they called me in last week, for a moment, I thought you were dead." She hadn't realized that she was crying until the tear plopped itself ceremoniously onto the black plastic.

"'Tasha? It's fine. We're gonna be alright." She looked at his weary smile, and did what she could to return her own and soundlessly returned to her bloody work.

* * *

"Good job not diving through that window face first carnie, cause this ain't a pretty picture."

It'd taken her the better part of two hours to get all the glass out. For a lack of supplies, they were now surrounded by mounds of wadded up bloody toilet paper, for a few of the deeper cuts, she'd had to close them with crazy glue.

_You think I'm pretty? _He signed with a teasing smile. _I'm not as pretty as you._

_"_Get back down, you big tease. I'm not down with this cut on your arm." Using one hand to push down on his back and another to pinch the back of his neck, she shoved him back down onto the bed and chuckled as he landed face first into a mound of toilet paper, arms spread out into a position of surrender.

As she worked to spread the glue on the cut on his right bicep, he twisted his left awkwardly to sign with one hand.

_You're evil. Hurry up Stalin, my ass is falling asleep._

"You know, before stitches and glue, there was always the cauterization of wounds."

_Point made. Though now this is really beginning to sound like Budapest._

She had just slapped him on the ass when she hear Pepper's scream from the door.

"Oh my god. I'm so sorry, I thought you would be sleeping, not... My god, are you guys alright? Is that blood? Did you glue? Oh!" Definitely Pepper.

"Pepper, it's fine." She tapped Clint on the shoulder and signed _turn around, company. _Pepper looked to still be in a state of shock, not that she was surprised given the time that they spent together while she worked undercover as Natalie Rushman. The woman had a penchant for getting overly worked up.

"Tony! Guys!"

_Zip._

"Pepper, listen! Pepper! It's no big deal, he's fine." Looking to her right, she could see Clint nodding enthusiastically in agreement.

"Yeah, Ms. Potts, we're fine." The embarrassment of the situation of evident on his face, and was reflected in the fact that he was speaking just a touch too loud. "I really need to take a shower," he said randomly, stretching has arms back into a yawn, leapt off the bed, and darted into the bathroom, leaving her crouched on the garbage bag surrounded by bloody tissue paper and with a horror stricken Pepper.

* * *

"What the fuck happened here? Were you torturing Agent Barton?" Something about seeing Pepper's expression mirrored on Stark's face threatened to make her burst out laughing. In fact, that very expression was reflected on the rest of the team's faces.

"No. But I am going to take a picture of all your faces, cause this is just too good to miss."

"Seriously, Agent Romanoff, what happened here?" She could tell that the Cap was genuinely concerned.

"Carnie threw himself through a window. I was doing clean-up. I don't see what you wusses are so concerned about. I'm going to go see if he's drowned himself in the tub."

Feedback is much appreciated. Do try to be nice even though I'm not. Next chapter is a wip and may be posted tomorrow if I get a good response.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Still don't belong to me.

Notes: (i) Don't read the notes if you don't want to. (ii) If it were not obvious already, this will be Clintasha, though I hesitate to classify this as romance as I see their relationship as more of a unhealthy reliance between two equally fucked up people who are otherwise incapable of a normal relationship. (iii) I've decided to label POV in this chapter because it does change multiple times and it'd probably be confusing otherwise, especially because I'm not as good as establishing voice as I'd like to be. However, I'd appreciate feedback on formatting and style if you have any. (iv) On that note, Clint is hearing impaired in this fic, as he was for sometime in comic verse, italics (except when used for emphasis) indicate ASL. Dialogue in ASL will be written in standard English grammar structure for general flow and ease of comprehension.

More important notes: (i) I will try to update in a timely manner but I just started law school and the purpose of this is to de-stress! I will try to work faster given feedback and input but generally, expect updates around once a week from now on. (ii) This chapter focuses upon the rest of the team because I want to lay out some ground work and establish a 'voice' for everyone. This being in the Avengers section after all. Next chapter will be entirely Clint's POV with backstory on the character and his relationship with Natasha.

* * *

Chapter Two aka _On Some Level, We're All Fucked Up (Judgmental Pricks_)

Tony POV

"Am I the only one who finds this deeply disturbing? No, right? Pepper?"

"I believe she was indeed doing as she said, Man of Iron. I can see that there are many small pieces of glass here. I seems that the Hawk actually injured himself falling through a window. She means him no harm. We need not be alarmed for his safety." Thor had moved towards the bed which appeared to have been covered with some garbage bags and a vast number of bloodied tissues. There was also, in fact, a small mountain of tiny glass shards, a pair of tweezers, and a tube of crazy glue.

"You've got to be kidding me," he said picking up the tube of glue. "I knew she was bonkers with this crazy spy stuff, but he too? Do they not know about modern medicine? Is this even safe?" If this last week has shown Tony anything, it was the fact that were actually people a hell of a lot more messed up than he. Between Afghanistan and then Vanko, Tony couldn't help but question the effect that he had on those closest to him. Obadiah had worked with his father for years, practically watched him grow up, and the man had no hesitation in wanting to kill him. Come to think of it, he really only had three real friends, Pepper, Happy, and Rhodey, granted, he and Pepper where now a whole lot more than _friends_, but of the three, two were ever even close to him because they worked for him. This so called Avengers bunch that he just got cobbled into however, made him realize that Pepper could have down a whole lot worse...

"Well, actually, glue is a very effective alternative to suturing. It generally reduces scarring, though I'm not sure about those tweezers, or you know, having her digging that out over the last two hours without any anesthesia." Bruce actually looked a bit green as he finished his words, and that had nothing to do with the other guy.

Just look at them! Yes he, Tony Stark, may be slightly anti-social at times and not all that well versed in the niceties of everyday interactions, but here was a man who has avoided society like the plague. Albeit with good reason. Imagine taking out city blocks just for getting doubled parked or wreaking the house after having too good a time. Does that happen? Or look at the Capsicle. If he didn't know any better you'd think the guy woke up thinking they were still fighting revolutionary war, not WWII. Tony felt uncomfortable just looking at him, not just over the change in technology but of life in general. Even in his own time, the guy had to be a prude, and all those notions of morality and bravery and blah blah blah. Didn't Wilfred Owen already throw those out the window at WWI already? Not to mention Blondie. Half the time no one even understands alien thunder god hammersmith and half the time he doesn't understand anyone else. Not to mention those two. The term fubar had to originate somewhere. How bad is it, that one of the greatest perks of being a part of this team so far is how much better his teammates made him feel about himself?

"Agent Barton didn't seem overly concerned when I walked in. I thought they were, you know, before I saw this. Then he just yawned and said he needed a shower. Should we clean this up?" Pepper, always the practical one.

"Yeah well, not it. I mean, are we even sure he doesn't have a disease or something? This can be infectious material." But truth be told, the sight simply left Tony queasy. "Or you, Super soldier or the demigod can do it. You'd be immune, right?"

The Cap hadn't really moved from the door way or said anything, but Thor asked, "And how shall I dispose of this? Is all this material refuse?" Was Asgard actually a renaissance fair in merry old England? How can anyone even say that word with a straight face?

"Yeah, let's just wrap it all up and throw it in the incinerator. I think I'm going to be sick. I think the Cap is already sick."

* * *

Bruce POV

"Steve, you okay?" Steve was never one of many words, but there was always something assertive even in his calm manner. Here was a guy whose physical presence would always be felt and seeing him slumped in the doorway meant something was off.

"I was just thinking, Agent Coulson was killed today, the man had really respected me, but I was cold and dismissive. There has been so much death and destruction. I've been so critical of this generation, of all their selfishness and cowardice, but what I didn't see was myself. There is camaraderie here, and bravery, and I've been too self-righteous to see any of it, I..." Not an entirely inaccurate observation but definitely not the called for response. Steve could be nagging and self-righteous but of all of them he had a good heart, that much Bruce could tell. His condition forces him to shy away from confrontation and keep his emotions in check but everyone, Bruce and Steve had the most in common. They were still capable of admitting they cared.

"Hey Cap, and I thought I was the sappy philosophical one. Don't be so hard on yourself. It's been a crazy week and this is your first real assignment back. It's a different time, we're a lot of these things you say, so don't idealize it and blame yourself, we're a team now right? Things are going to be okay. However you messed up. However we all messed up. It doesn't have to stay that way."

"Thanks, Dr. Banner."

"Call me Bruce, and don't mention it." It felt funny to be the one giving reassurance to anybody, especially when his presence was a constant threat to anybody he cared about. But Bruce knew how the Steve must feel, to wake up and suddenly feel so out of place.

* * *

Steve POV

"Well Bruce, I don't mean to be presumptuous but thanks, and um, I think, of this group here, you'd be the one to understand you know? I mean, how long have we all even known each other? And I mean no disrespect. We're a team now and everyone here... I can't find the words." Why can't he find the words? Because he does respect everyone here and together they've just _saved the world _but still something is just off. Because Tony Stark for all his self sacrificing antics was still a jerk. Because Thor with all his moralizing and manners and proper language was still an _alien demigod_. Because it's obvious that Clint and Natasha's day jobs were to be assassins and even if they were on the _good side_, he's not sure he can wrap his head around that. Because there was something inherently _wrong_ with somebody who could walk around like a _god damned _porcupine with glass sticking out their back like it was _no big deal _and something just as wrong with someone who'd calmly pick it all out like a _game_ of operation.

And that's what's wrong, because, he, Steve, for all his sense of guilt was still a _judgmental prick_.

"Captain America, I'm Captain America, but I'm not. Captain America is more than this. He's more than Steve Rodgers." And he's not sure if he can continue this little monologue but for the fact that Bruce actually gives him an understanding nod. Stark would've made some snarky quip by now. "And I know I'm being selfish and it's uncalled for, but when I look around here, I don't see human. That, _that_, is not human," and he gestures towards the bed. "Looking around here, you and I, that's all I can see. And I need someone to see that." To see, despite the overwhelming evidence, that Steve was normal, sane, and human.

"Agent Romanoff?" This may not have been the best time and place for him to have just said all that. For what it's worth, she did not look anymore angry at the moment as was her usual demeanor.

"I'm sorry to interrupt this special moment here, but anyone pick up his ears when they were doing clean up?" Natasha was clad in a fluffy white robe and her towel dried hear was frizzy and stuck up at odd angles. Clint on the other hand simply looked worried with a towel wrapped around his torso, and remarkably unscathed except for a number of bruises and a battering of old scars on his chest, granted, those were rather numerous.

"Ears?"

"Ears?" Apparently Bruce was just as confused as he was.

"Yeah, hearing aids? Small flesh colored plastic things. Please tell me you guys didn't throw them away. And where are my tweezers?"

"Eh, Tony said something about an incinerator?"

"You've got to be kidding me." She turns toward Barton and they proceed to have what he presumes to be a conversation in sign language. Her expression is one of increasing frustration and anger but Barton actually seems to look amused.

"Nice hair Nat! What's with the super secret gesturing?" Tony, Pepper, and Thor where back and Natasha doesn't seem all to happy with Tony's question or any part of his presence. Calling her Nat definitely won't help his case.

"Did you yahoos just incinerate his ears and my tweezers?" Definitely didn't. The woman had no superpowers, so why is it that she was undoubtably the scariest one of them all?

"I don't take your meaning Lady Natasha. I was told by the Man of Iron to help dispose of the refuse. I was unaware that there remained something of value to you or that the Hawk's ears was amongst the pile..."

"Not his actual ears, Sherlock, his hearing aids. They were his last pair."

"Oh my god! We're so sorry! Tony?!"

"Yeah, I guess those would've been, eh, incinerated then, cause that's sorta what happens in an incinerator." And here's to hoping that none of them are next.

* * *

Bad, good, maybe so? Would be nice if you'd let me know! Wow, I'm such a loser. Anyway, please do let me know. It will induce me to type faster. As mentioned above, next chapter will entirely be in Clint's POV. The majority of future chapters will likely cycle between Clint and Natasha POVs but I think this chapter needed to be done to situate things. It's also good perspective to see things from the other side, although people say it takes one to know one. I don't think these two would willingly acknowledge how messed up they are, or even really know.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Still don't belong to me.

Notes pt.1: (i) This story is now labelled with the added category of angst. Somehow this didn't occur to me before, but yeah, this chapter? Angst-galore. (ii) As promised, this chapter is entirely Clint POV. (iii) I'm unsure about the stylistic structuring of this chapter. The dialogue and introspection is blocked, if that makes sense. I would appreciate feedback on what you think about this.

Warnings: (i) This chapter contains mention of thoughts of suicide and graphic descriptions of self harm that may be triggering. You know yourself best. Please do not read if you think this may pose a problem for you. (ii) There is a short sex scene. This story is rated M. If you watch any television at all, it's nothing more graphic than most of what's on tv today. Just in case though, you have been warned.

* * *

Chapter 3 aka When Somehow They Think You're Their Psychotherapist, And You're Really Not

_Those are my last pair. I don't have anymore spares._

_Wise._

_Fucked up one pair when crazy alien guy messed with my head. Blew the other in the battle._

_Cover's blown anyway._

_Think I can get a few weeks off? A week? Few days? Least I don't have to listen to their bickering, sucker!_

Clint had never considered his hearing loss as a problem. He wore his hearing aids mostly out of necessity on missions as they functioned as his com link as well. His job as a sniper required someone who wasn't bothered by long silences and the idea of being alone. In fact, it was something that he enjoyed. He liked the solitude of being perched up in the rafters waiting for his prey. It wasn't until he'd been recruited by shield, met Coulson, and then Natasha that he really enjoyed the company of another person again. His deafness made his job more bearable and vice versa. But seeing the shock on his team mates faces also made him remember why it _was_ something that he usually kept to himself. It did not interfere was his ability to do his job but it was something that made others uncomfortable.

_Tasha, can you ask Pepper what the point of all this was? What was she going to ask us in the first place? _

Aside from the fact that what they have between them is probably the closest thing to love that either of them would know, he loved having Natasha around because she was totally comfortable with it. When she'd first found out she'd said she was alright with it and meant it. It might be a hassle yes, but it was quantifiable, what bothered her the most were the intangibles, emotions and other forms of human(weak)ness.

_Dinner?_

_Good. I'm hungry._

"Yeah, well. Let's eat then! We'll be out in a minute..."

As Natasha ushers the group out, he turns to his duffle to grab a change of clothes. The day is catching up with him, and even though his hearing aids are out and incinerated, his head is still pounding and he's not sure whether it's the pain in his back or his head that's worse. Struggling to pull a shirt on, he feels her hand on his back and relaxes.

_Not going to pass out or anything are you, baby?_

_I don't pass out._

_Budapest, Venice, Kandahar. I can go on._

_That was from blood loss._

_Suit yourself. Maybe you should still take a children's advil just in case._

_Fuck you._

_Wouldn't you love to._

* * *

When they finally made it to the kitchen, there was no food.

"I though there was going to be dinner. Where's the food?" _Thanks Nat_. "Don't tell me we went through all that trouble and that there's no food."

"Yeah about that. Turns out half of New York City is destroyed and most of the other half is without electricity or water or both. Not much choice in terms of take out available."

"Stark, we're standing in a kitchen."

"Yeah, a kitchen, not a restaurant. It requires someone who can cook. A vital distinction. How's Legolas doing after your hack and glue job?" Hack and glue job. Huh? Considering all the times that Nat had had to patch him up, this really wasn't all that bad. His back was hurting like a bitch but he'd been fucked up enough times to know when he was _Fucked_ _up_ and this wasn't one of them. It probably wouldn't be a bad idea to pick up some antibiotics though, with the luck that he's been having. That is, if he hasn't caught the plague already. It was their job to put their life on the line, to cross the line and do the things that no one else wanted to do, but even with all the weird messed up shit that he's seen and been through during his years in S.H.I.E.L.D, being turned into a drone by a psychotic demigod from the other end of space was _not _one of them.

_Clint? You alright?_

_I'm good. Let's see if we even have anything to work with here. I feel like I haven't eaten or slept in days. Scratch that, I'm sure I haven't eaten or slept in days. _

Clint could see all the pairs of eyes that were trained on him. Hell, he could feel their gaze burning on his skin but he truly could not care less right now. Undoubtably they all had questions. As new as this so called Avengers team was and as little as they knew of and spent time with each other, he was the newest and least known entity. Not so many hours ago, he was on the _other_ side for all they knew.

If Clint were any of them, he wouldn't even be standing here right now. Except for Tasha, why should any of them have reason to trust him at all? For all they knew, for all they should know, he could flip a switch and try to kill them all right now. Who's to say that all it took to flush Loki out was a hard hit on the head. Does _he_ even know? Can he be sure, that it was now all him inside his head? That there wasn't hidden away in some corner of his mind, _just enough_? That in some next mission, something in him wouldn't hesitate just enough, miss just enough, to do something just enough, to get them all killed? To get Nat killed?

And yet, here he was standing in a kitchen in Stark tower surrounded by all of them. Were they all this naive? Or did they all think him that weak?

He knows he's just on autopilot now, because he just _can't_ think. Even in the action of today, everything is muscle memory, just as dicing a tomato now. Clint's job was to kill, most of the time secretly but sometimes in an all out fight. Sometimes it's with an arrow, sometimes a bullet, sometimes poison, sometimes a rope... But the action of killing is the same. To release the bow, it feels no different when the arrow is going into the flesh of a man vs into an alien. The feel of the trigger's pressure on his finger no different whether it's met by quiet acquiescence or a shrill scream.

This is what Natasha and Clint have in common. The others, everyone else, not just the rest of the Avengers, but the new S.H.I.E.L.D. recruits and sometimes he thinks even Fury and Coulson, they do not understand indifference. At some point they all moralize and struggle, there are some jobs that they just can't do. What they don't realize is that their difference and categorizing is misplaced. It's not that he and Nat don't care but that they knew from the very first kill that they were doomed. There was some red that could not be wiped out no matter what you did. It's not about being able to see past the situation to the larger picture. It's not about being able separate oneself from emotions to make the objective move. It's not about being able to suppress and compartmentalize.

Clint still remembers his first days in the circus and his absolute ineptitude, but right from the start they would all praise him for his bravery. You've got to learn fear kid they said, your indifference will get you killed. What they didn't realize was that it wasn't that he wasn't afraid standing on the ledge but rather that his life was filled with fear. And their comes a point where the mind becomes simply saturated and all you can do is learn to live with it. So yes, it is indifference. Indifference about life, indifference about death, but not indifference like anyone of them would understand, not like Natasha.

* * *

They all eat in silence, at least to Clint. He keeps his gaze on the bowl, on the counter, on the ground in front of him. Still, he can't miss a glance at the occasional parting of their lips where he catches the edges of his name. Silence. He'd probably pay for it later, but it doesn't matter to him now. Nat is sitting stiffly to his left, attacking her pasta with a fork, every movement is precise, timed, and calculated. It's the first thing that they teach you in dealing with _interrogation_, repetition, how to put yourself in a trance almost. How to put yourself away so that you don't even know your own mind, let alone any sensation in the body. And she was always the master. When they'd first met, he never saw her sleep, and that was saying a lot. When she'd finally told him, it was a year and a half in. _I don't like losing control of my thoughts. Simple_. And that was that. Except on those nights where her screaming gets so loud that it wakes even him and when she finally wakes she doesn't even feel the wetness of her hot tears running down cold trembling skin. _Simple_.

What happened to Nat to while he was _gone_? What _happened _to him?

He places a hand slowly on the small of her back, increasingly the pressure slowly, and suddenly her hand jerks to a stop. Wordlessly, she places her fork onto his plate, stacking it on her on and moves to place them in the sink. Their eyes meet in a fleeting glance and he gets up too, and wordlessly, they head back to the room. He can still feel their eyes boring holes in the back of his head but all he hears is silence. Throughout the meal he knows that they must have been speaking, but the voices never raise above a gentle whisper and he can't even hear the brush a harsh consonant like he usually does.

* * *

_Tasha, are you okay? _This was perhaps their most hated question, but he couldn't help himself.

_How about you look in the mirror and ask yourself that? _The frown on her face suggests that she's not pleased, but her eyes betray her. _Here, take these_, she signs, tossing a small orange bottle at him. The label's faded, but recognizes the doxycycline that medical hands out whenever one of them gets sliced up enough that they're worried about infections.

_I'm sorry. _When there's no way to defuse a bomb, the next best thing is to blow it up...

_What for? _There's no turning back once you lay the charges...

_What not for? _And light the fuse.

_Is this a joke? Because I'm not up for this right now! They call me in the middle of a job. Tell me that you're compromised. Tell me that they don't know if you're dead. Have me running around with a bunch of whack jobs looking for a whack job, looking for you. Thinking that if I find you, at any moment, you're going to finish that job that you never got done. Thinking that I'm going to have to off you. Thinking that the sick bastard is going to have you off yourself in front of me. So tell me, Clint Barton, what are you sorry for? _Her hand is shaking as she forcefully signs each letter of his name. She's been chewing on her lip and he could tell that the red on her teeth is not just from the lipstick but was blood as well. _Red_, how much red dripped from the both of them?

On the worst of days, it was a question that he could never answer. On the best of days, he could just manage to keep it from his mind.

He wants to scream right back at her. Does she think, for a moment, that this was easier for him? But he can't, knowing how much she must be hurting for her to expose herself like this. Instead, he reaches a hand to the corner, dislodging a tear that had rested itself in the crease. Her reaction is slow. It takes her a full three seconds to pull her gaze from the floor to his face. Before her hand even makes it an eighth of the way he's already seen it, he doesn't move, but waits instead, for her to slap him hard in the face. And again. And again.

_Why do you do this to me? Why do you have to make me this way?_

_If it means anything at all, I've never wanted to hurt you Tash. You know that._

_Look at us, Hawkeye and the Black Widow, trained assassins, here reduced to a soppy mess. _She's smiling again now but he knows her well enough to know that it doesn't mean anything more than the fact that she's regained enough control to push it all to the back of her head.

_With the week we've had, I'd say that we've earned it. All it took was what? A few hours? I'd say that we're good. Any else would still be cowering away in some dark corner. _Clint forces himself to return her smile but a look flashes in her eyes that says he's said something wrong.

_Nat?_

She grabs both his hands into her's in a tight grip. _Shut up_. All pretense of emotion's dropped from her face. And just like that she springs her body onto his, tripping out his feet from underneath him, and they both fall _hard_ on the carpeted floor. The carpet is a soft creamy white and Clint can't help but wonder what kind of idiot chooses such carpeting in a bedroom. He could feel that the cuts on his back have opened back up and judging by how slick the material of his shirt feels against his skin, he's pretty sure that Stark's carpet is going to be ruined. She's all frantic energy and pretty much _destroys_ his and her clothes. The way that her nails claw into his back should be murder but his entire body is _streaming_ and he's feeling too much to feel anything at all.

She's so tight that it takes everything just to keep himself from bursting. Her expression, however, hasn't changed at all, and then he knows, the woman in front of him is Natalia Romanova and he'd just have to ride it out until Natasha comes back.

* * *

She's passed out _cold_ and Clint's glad. He honestly did not think that there would come the day where he would be glad that he'd _fucked_ someone to sleep. That someone being Natasha of all people. But that_,_ was not Natasha.

For two people who depended so much on each other, they knew surprisingly little about each other's pasts. They both know each other's birth dates, the names of their parents, where they were born, the names of everyone the other's killed, how they were killed... But on the days that Clint finds it _impossible_ to sleep and Natasha's screamed herself hoarse, there is nothing more than an _understanding_ that something is irreparably broken inside the two of them and that the worst things in life are the things that you can't put a label on, the things that you cannot put into words. For these things, it is a constant struggle to bury them as deep inside as possible. For these things, they're a lot like a serrated knife and once it's worked its way into the flesh there is no pulling it out. It's not something that would kill instantly and you can still walk for a while with it buried inside. But the moment you pull it out, there is no stopping the bleeding. And then, you die.

On those nights, they both know not to ask _why_, and the best remedy is only your presence, and silence.

But sometimes Clint can't help but wonder, what's happened to _you_, Natasha? What's happened to _me_? The act of killing is so simple. The moment between life and death less than a second. But the road leading up to the moment of the killing is so much longer, it's their _entire_ lives.

He carries her back to bed and hopes that she's too exhausted to dream. He knows that he cannot sleep tonight, as much as feels that he should be able to sleep for a week. The room looks like a crime scene. The carpet reminiscent of the opening shot of some crime drama, all that's missing is for someone to trace his shape over the large bloody stain. He'd watched a few episodes of CSI once. It was after he'd gotten shot in Vienna. More of a graze really, but after having to wade through a rather suspicious pool of water, the infection was so bad that he'd almost died. For something so simple to begin with, the scar on his side was one of the most horrendous that he has. He remembers being stuck in medical and willingly staying put, not because of the pain but being afraid that he could die. He, Natasha, and Phil had spent a day watching crime dramas. Him and Natasha criticizing the idiotic ways that people chose to commit the murders. It was so normal, domestic even, except for what got them there in the first place.

The bedside clock reads 2:00 a.m. Putting on a pair of boxers, Clint heads out to the kitchen. He'd throw on a shirt as well but he hardly expects any of them to be awake right now. Besides, while any bleeding on is back was now nothing more than a trickle, a shirt would cling as the blood dried and he was not up for taking another shower which would probably wake Natasha up as well.

He doesn't bother with the lights, just moves to sit on one of the bar stools and stares out the large floor to ceiling windows, and zones out.

It's pure instinct the moment the light snaps on that he grabs a knife from the block, spins around and hurls it at the intruder. It's only at the very last moment that his mind catches on, giving him just enough time to adjust so that the knife whistles past the side of Stark's face and lodges itself solidly into the wall.

"What are you doing?" He's not sure if the stunned look on Stark's face is from the knife, how loud he may have just said that or some combination of both.

"I'd say that this is my tower and I do what I want. The proper question being _me_ asking _you_ what _you_ are doing. Or you know, how many times you've been run over by a bus to look like that. However, I guess it would be unwise to ask those questions right now." Well, the fact that he was back to his usual snarky annoying self meant that there was no real damage done. The problem being of course, that Clint was now essentially trapped with the aforementioned, and Tony Stark knew that Clint could understand him just fine.

"By stating them. You just asked them."

"Snappy are we? You know, you don't look so good. Did Stalin kick you out of bed? Cause that really wouldn't be very nice, with you being injured and all. But then again, if you both stayed up this late..."

"Stark."

"Just trying to do a bit of team bonding. With Coulson dying and all, and us saving the world. It's till death do us part now, the six of us. Wow, that was just all levels of wrong."

"Is everything a joke to you? You could at least show a little respect!"

"Hey, Phil was a good man. I know that..."

"You don't know anything. Phil was... Phil _saved_ my life..."

"Right, saved you, like you saved Romanoff, to go on doing the dirty work for S.H.I.E.L.D instead. I've read your files. Even with most of the thing blacked out there's no hiding what you two do."

"And you think you're so much better Stark? How much blood to you have on your hands? Hiding in that suit of yours doesn't make you more clean. What makes you think you have the right to be judge and executioner?"

"The situations that I was in. I only killed when I had no choice. I had to, to protect innocent lives. What you two do, you wait for people to be at their most vulnerable then slit their throats!"

"Right, and by going up higher in the food chain Natasha and I are the evil ones now? You get to take out the foot soldier to save the child and be the hero, but taking out the guy behind it all, that's wrong?"

"Well, if you put it that way..."

"I'm not going to lie. I've done some messed up shit. Before Phil, I did anything for money. S.H.I.E.L.D is no exemplar of morality either but don't think for a second that it gives you the right! Do you remember the faces of the people you've killed Tony? Do you ever consider what drove them there, to be killers? To make you a killer too?"

"Stop trying to twist this all around! How bout you, huh? You remember all the people you've killed?"

"Me being messed up doesn't make you any less so. For Ms. Potts' sake, I sincerely hope you aren't as messed up as me. But I think we both know there's a reason we're the only ones standing here at 4:00 in the morning." The look on Stark's face forcing him to consider he may have twisted the knife just a little too hard.

"You ever learn to get past it? All the things you've had to do? All the things you couldn't do?"

"Asking the wrong guy if you want advice. Been trying to scrub my hands clean for twenty something years and there's always a spot that won't rub off."

"I don't know if I should be more disturbed by the fact that I think you just made a Shakespeare reference or the fact that you basically admitted to committing murder as a child."

"I was seven years old and I hated my parents. Father was an alcoholic but that was good. The drunker he was the harder it was for him to catch Barney and I, the harder it was for him to land a punch. Mother didn't give a damn, but you really can't blame her. There was nothing she could've done. Caring would have just made it worse. Barney, my older brother, would lift bottles of rubbing alcohol and we'd mix it with the cheap stuff that the bastard drank to get him drunk faster. One day, he was so wasted, we thought he'd finally pass out, but then, he grabs our her, takes the car out. Police show up an hour later. He'd ran a red. They weren't wearing seat belts, died instantly. When he was thrown from the car and flew into the lamp post, it smashed his head like a watermelon. I was actually happy you know? When I first heard what happened."

"We stayed at the orphanage for six years. It was nothing like before, but then you start to miss having some adult around who cared enough to at least beat you up once in a while. The one thing worse than dreading the future is the feeling that you have no future at all. You know what we did then? Ran away to the fucking circus. Can you believe that people actually did that shit? Everyone there was so messed that you can convince yourself that you were normal. When you're standing at the top of the tent, you can't see the netting underneath. It's a horrifying feeling that's seducing, but on the day that you step off, the fall barely lasts a second. It knocks the wind out of you. Then the next time you step up there, it doesn't feel like anything at all.

I could tell that Barney was jealous when I got chosen for the act and he didn't. In the beginning when you first learn to shoot, gloves or not, you shoot long enough the string just shreds your fingers, and then on the heavier draws. Or when you're working the tension and the damn thing just snaps and slices your arm open? I made sure Barney'd see the blood.

He tried to convince me to join the army with him. I thought he'd have waited a little longer. Who knows? Maybe I'd be the one who's dead now and he'd be here talking to you.

God! My head is so messed up right now. You told me five hours ago I would be spilling my guts out to fucking Tony Stark I would've told you to go fuck yourself."

"Yeah well, right back at ya. And not to be insensitive or anything, but that was the most depressing story I ever heard, and I watch Oprah." Tony Stark, maybe not _so_ bad after all.

* * *

Well that was long and unpleasant, over 4,000 words! I wasn't sure how to set up the long monologue there at the end other than that I wanted it there and I wanted that stuff in there. In the end, having Clint "spill his guts" to Tony seemed the most natural fit. Tony is one of the easier characters for me to write and it helps that he and Clint are not exactly best friends to begin with here. Personally, it's much easier to spill everything to a person I'm not so close to because I don't care so much what they'd think. The flip side of course being that the relationship completely changes after the fact. The entire thing may be a bit ooc but I think being ooc is expected when he hasn't eaten, hasn't slept, had his brain messed with, etc. Real people are inconsistent.

Notes pt. 2: (i) Poor Clint and Natasha. It just got darker and darker and darker as I was writing this. But, there was a speck of humor in there! You may have had to squint. A light does start to appear next chapter. Let's just hope it's not a train. (Or I don't know, do you want it to be a train?) **ii)** **Thank you so much to all of you who are reading this story and especially to those of you who have reviewed and/or are following. I'm sorry for putting this right at the end, but here's why: less than 1% of people who click on this story review. Personally, I'm horrible about reviewing as well so I really can't complain. However, as someone who's writing their first fic and who's rather insecure, I have no way of telling if a) people like this story but just don't have time/ don't have much to say in a review or b) click on this and decide it's not their thing or c) start reading this and think it's a piece of crap out to torture humanity. If you're reading this here at the end, chances are you are at least not in category c; please leave me a short note telling me this, just for this one chapter. I'll never ask again. Thank you.**


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